Not Give In
by M. the Inspector
Summary: Javert and Valjean, post-barricade, in a carriage.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: In the book, when they meet up after the barricade, Javert and Valjean ride in a carriage together (instead of splitting up on foot). So this starts out with the two of them in a carriage.**

* * *

A sharp _crack,_ and the coach lurched to one side. Valjean fell hard into the wall beside him and then crashed to the seat. Opposite him Javert did the same.

They struggled upright and hung on, as the carriage careened wildly and then finally dragged to a stop. "A wheel," Valjean said – unnecessarily; they were listing to one side. "Where are we? I hope someone has a jack." Javert gave him a strange look, whose meaning he could guess. "I am not lifting any wagons today. I'm too old," he explained, then shuddered. The galleys would not care that he was too old. He would be called upon to exhibit the freakish strength of his youth – or else.

Javert opened the door and spoke to the driver. There were footsteps in the street – a policeman come to investigate the commotion. Upon recognizing Javert, he offered to lend his aid, either by helping to change out the wheel or by helping to find a new cab. Javert conversed with him a few moments – with his hand on his prisoner's knee the whole time, feeling for movement, warning against it.

Only when he sat back down inside, closing the door firmly behind him, did he withdraw the hand. He settled back in his seat as if to wait.

But Valjean found the prospect of waiting to be a horror. "A new cab would be faster than a new wheel," he proposed, nearly pleading. "Or perhaps we can walk?"

"Faster?" Javert echoed with a frown of puzzlement. "Shouldn't you be glad of this delay? It means a few more minutes before… we arrive."

Valjean shook his head. The pit in his stomach might kill him. "I am suffering."

"I see." The inspector was quiet a moment. Then, he steepled his hands under his chin and lowered his eyes. "I warned you, Valjean," he said heavily. "I told you that I have a job to do and that if we crossed paths again, I would not stand down."

"You warned me," Valjean agreed, without spirit. "I was warned."

"However. I can do _something_ for you." Javert took a deep breath. "What I can do is this: I can remind you of a fact that you may be too distraught to remember on your own right now."

Valjean cleared his throat. "What fact?"

"The fact that I have never been a match for you in a fistfight."

Valjean stared.

"They are occupied with the wheel," Javert went on. "If you were to overpower me and slip out of here quickly, I think you would get away."

He could not believe his ears. "Are you telling me…?"

"I am telling you I'll fight," Javert said, still calm. "With every ounce of strength I possess. You may have to kill me after all."

It was not the time for thought, for the weighing of possibilities. Valjean hurled himself forward, smashing into Javert's skull with his – then did it two more times in quick succession, brutally, so fast that there was no time to fight back or even to cry out. There was the hollow _crunch_ and _clunk_ of the blows, the dull _thump_ of Javert's head against the wall behind him. And then silence.

Valjean bent down to take stock – slowly; he himself was dizzy. There was blood, and though Javert breathed he was unconscious. Valjean dug into his pockets to find his papers – his address. He and the inspector still had unfinished business between them, and he would prefer to choose the time and place of their next confrontation. It was less harrowing to be the hunter than the hunted.

He opened the carriage door and stole out into the night. Javert was right: he got away.

* * *

TBC.

 **There's one more part to this. Should be up tomorrow. Let me know what you think!**


	2. Chapter 2

Valjean hesitated at the top of the stairs, outside the door, gathering the courage to knock.

But knocking turned out to be unnecessary: a voice addressed him from inside. "Come in, Valjean."

He tried not to feel chilled. "You know my step," he said as he entered the apartment. It was as small and austere as he had expected: one room, with Javert's bed a bare few meters from the door.

"I do." Javert huffed. "Even now, too dizzy to stand up, I still do."

"Too dizzy?" Valjean approached the bed. Even in the semidarkness – the curtains were heavy and Javert's candle was on his other side – he could make out the dark of bruising. "From the other night?

"Mm. You know your business."

"You know I do," he snarled, hating the reminder, hating that it could rile him. He tried to find calm again.

"Why are you here?"

He had anticipated the question, and had a response ready. "I'm here to apologize for attacking you. And also because I need something from you," he said. "I need you to do openly today what you did in secret the other night."

"What I did," Javert repeated stiffly. "What is it that you think I did?"

"You let me go."

"I did not," Javert snapped. "You beat me senseless. With a savagery I'm ashamed to admit I did not expect from you. I should have: I know you."

But this time Valjean realized that the comment was meant to distract him, and so ignored it. "You let me go," he repeated instead. "You thought for me when I could not think for myself. And you gave me your permission – without which I would not have proceeded."

Javert struggled to sit up – struggled so wretchedly that Valjean knelt and helped him.

"I did not give permission," Javert hissed once upright. His eyes shined, so that Valjean could see the precise moment when they began to roll back. "Let me down," he ordered, "Or I will vomit."

Valjean helped him lie back. "How ill are you?"

"It's not your concern." Javert chuckled. "Concern! From a galley-slave."

"Concern from _me._ We were colleagues once." He took a moment to pray for courage. "And now we are conspirators. A moment ago we were speaking of permission. If…" he faltered. "If you did not give me your permission the other night – though I think you did – I demand it now."

Javert sighed. "Just get out of here. You see I am in no position to give chase."

Valjean shook his head. "No. That is insufficient. _I cannot run from you anymore, Javert._ I cannot."

"Then perhaps you should turn _yourself_ in, and leave me out of it entirely."

He ignored that. "Since when do you practice self-deception? Admit what you did, and stand by it. If you swear to me that you won't turn me in, I will live under any conditions you care to name. I'll disappear. I'll be a hermit in exile. Or I'll live right here where you can keep an eye on me, apprise you of my every move. Whatever you like."

Javert was quiet for a long minute. Then he laughed, hard. "I can keep an eye on you?" he echoed. "So now you want your parole after all." He laughed again – but this time it devolved into a fit of coughing.

Despite himself – and despite Javert – Valjean grew concerned at the sounds of wet gagging. "I'm opening this curtain," he announced.

When he did so the light poured in and he gasped. "Javert!"

The inspector's face was bruised from brow to whiskers, swollen, and he had struggled to his side to cough blood into a basin.

"What? It's nothing. The nose broke badly," he said with irritation, "Attempts to fix it went badly, and when enough blood drips into my throat, I retch it up. That's all."

It was not _all_ ; a cut through his eyebrow had also been stitched. "It looks awful."

"It's no more than I deserve."

Valjean steered clear of that. "You need a doctor," he said instead.

"I had one."

"When?" he barked, and received no answer. "That first evening, so that they could confirm you were still alive, and not since?" It was a guess, but Javert's glowering shrug confirmed its truth. "Then I will send one for you. I did not save your life that night just to beat you to death a few hours later."

"I am not anything close to dying," Javert protested – sullenly. Valjean recognized the tone: the inspector knew himself to be overruled.

"I will send a doctor," he promised again. "And you will allow yourself to be treated. I'll return in a week to check that you're better."

Javert spat one last time and then rolled to his back. "Now _you_ are going to keep an eye on _me,_ " he snorted. "No wonder I'm so dizzy: the world is upside down, that's all. Go away."

Valjean considered the prospect of waiting a week to finish the conversation. It was too terrible. "Not yet," he said. "First, I still need your promise."

A silence. "Let us be clear. What you are asking of me…"

"Is more than you were able to do the other night," he acknowledged. "But not as much more as you're pretending: _you let me go_." He squared up. "Now: tell me you will let me go forever. Or kill me now." There: let Javert see that he was not the only one who could make dramatic pronouncements about how death would be preferable! "That would be kinder, and I think you owe me that much kindness at least."

"I owe you nothing," Javert said immediately, "And I am not a murderer." His jaw worked, and Valjean waited, sensing that he was not finished. "But nor am I a saint," he continued at last. "In this instance, I cannot bring myself to do as I should. I will not turn you in."

There it was. Clipped and precise. Bare of all emotion… there it was.

"I can disappear tonight," he promised hoarsely.

"No!" Javert stirred. "You'll go nowhere. I want you near me, I want to see you walking free. Every time I do, it will twist the knife – and it's right that I should suffer."

 _He is mad,_ Valjean thought, not for the first time where Javert was concerned. But the proposal was terrifying. "Javert… it won't work. All it will take is _one_ slip, _one_ day when your feelings overwhelm you, and-"

"I will not slip." _And I have no feelings,_ he did not say, but Valjean heard it anyway. "It's my punishment, and I will bear it." His eyes were sunken and crowded by swelling, but clear as ever. "I will confess this once to a priest, before I die, but outside of that one time I will take your secret to the grave. I swear it."

Words failed, so Valjean bowed deep, a hand over his heart. He backed away towards the door. "I will send a doctor," he murmured. "And I will see you – soon."

He saw Javert's teeth clench, and it was clear that the pain was not physical, and he would not have appreciated any thanks, so Valjean did not offer any.

* * *

 **The End?**

 **I think this one ends here. But I saw a fantastic Javert over the weekend and now feel inspired to write Javert fics. So, more stories may be coming. Let me know what you think!**


End file.
